Freaky Green Eyes by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

streaks of cloud overhead but a pale-blue sky. As Mom said, things were very quiet here. At one corner of the barn there was a large, sand-coloredboulder that must’ve weighed a ton, partly covered by morning glory vines, and almost hidden beneath this boulder was a burrow some creature had made. I thought it was a rabbit but Mom said no, the burrow was too big for a rabbit, probably it was a groundhog. It was an old burrow, not a new one. Maybe it wasn’t even inhabited any longer. I said, “A special hiding place.”
    Mom said, “It is. A special hiding place. You’re right, Francesca. Someone could leave a secret message for someone else in this burrow. No one would ever look here.”
    We hiked back to Mom’s cabin, where Samantha and Rabbit had been joined by Mom’s friend Melanie, her two young children, and her Border collie, Princess. The way Rabbit was making up to Princess, who was twice his size, you’d have thought he’d never seen another dog before, let alone one so beautiful.
    Mom’s friend Melanie was a young widow: her husband had been a trucker, hauling logs, and he’ddied in a fiery crash just fifteen months before. Mom told us this after Melanie had left. I’d noticed, while Melanie was with us, drinking cranberry tea and eating oatmeal cookies Mom had baked, that neither woman alluded to a husband, deceased or living. I wondered if people in Skagit Harbor knew anything about Mom’s private life. And if they knew, what they thought. To them, she was Krista Connor, which was the name Mom used to sign her art. But obviously, now that Samantha and I had showed up, Mom had a family, too.
    There was a single closet in the cabin, and I saw in it only a few of Mom’s clothes. Mostly shirts, jeans, slacks, what Mom called “old clothes.” A long skirt, and a single pullover jersey dress, pumpkin-colored, that she wore with strands of amber beads, that I liked. A few sweaters, a lightweight canvas jacket. And only a few pairs of shoes. Back home, Mom’s closet was crammed with beautiful clothes, most of them dresses. She must’ve owned thirty—forty?—pairs of shoes.
    I didn’t ask her about this. I wasn’t spying on Mom. I wasn’t going to tell Dad anything revealing, though I guessed he would ask me.
    For the next two and a half days, Samantha and I had a wonderful time in Skagit Harbor. As if some part of us understood that it couldn’t last.
    Mom took us hiking on a small mountain north of town which overlooked the harbor and, to the east, the foothills of Mount Moon, which was a much higher mountain. Melanie, her children, and Princess came with us; we packed a picnic lunch. Later, while Mom was working in her studio, an artist friend named Mero Okawa took us rowing and swimming on the Skagit River near his place, a cabin like Mom’s except larger and a little showier. Everybody seemed to know everybody else in Skagit Harbor, at least in Mom’s circle of Deer Point Road residents, artists, and gallery owners. I had the idea that in a week, everybody would know me. There were girls my age I met who seemed really nice, and a few guys. People began calling me Frankyalmost immediately, which I liked. Nobody asked me about my dad, if they knew who he was. And nobody asked where I went to school, as they would have in Seattle where the school you attend, public or private, is a shorthand way of signaling who you are, how much money your parents have.
    Friday evening there was a barbecue at a neighbor’s house on Mom’s road, where everybody brought food and things to drink. We helped Mom make potato salad and husk sweet corn. There was a softball game before supper, and rowing on the river, by moonlight, afterward. All ages of people were together, having a great time. I have to admit, I met a boy named Garrett (a senior at Skagit Harbor High) who seemed to like me, I mean in a casual, kidding-around